


Kindness Among Ashes

by imperfectkreis



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Awkward Flirting, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Mutual Pining, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-15 02:03:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11796144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: Male Hunter OC/Male Hunter OCYalda hadn’t had the strength to be good before. Now, with the blood ministrations and the Dream, all things seem possible.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [festlich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/festlich/gifts).



> Based on [this art](http://bloodwrit.tumblr.com/post/164142464325/my-hunter-buck-from-bloodborne-and) by festlich/bloodwrit. We had been talking about our Hunters and I started this after seeing her original sketch.

Yalda darts ahead, his threaded cane pulled back, ready to strike. His boots clack against the worn stone streets, echoing through the hollow city. There are no longer enough inhabitants to absorb the harsh noise of the Hunt. Behind him, Buck follows, slower, more cautious in his approach. Yalda doesn’t mind being the first to strike, or the first to fall when the beasts lash out. 

The beast they face now in the otherwise empty plaza, is a horrid thing, wet around the mouth, claws extended and fur rank with sweat and bile. Yalda cannot forget that once this beast was human. Killing it is a kindness. They will try to be swift.

Yalda smacks the beast in the side with his cane, dancing around to try and get the creature to turn, leaving its flank open for Buck to strike with his more powerful saw. Laughing out of nervousness, Yalda backs up as the beast claws at him, talon nails shredding the front of his attire. He cannot stay out of range for long, lunging back and smashing his cane into the long, thin, wolf-like face. The tip of the cane bursts the beast’s amber eye open. Howling in response, it staggers wildly. And this time, it catches more than just fabric in its claws.

Yalda hits the pavement hard, the full weight of the beast coming down on top of him. Trying not to scream, he still coughs up blood. His ribs are shattered, tearing into his organs as his body tries to breathe. No matter how many times he dies, he can’t shut his survival instinct off. Panic rising in his throat until he has no choice but to choke. 

Dimly, he can hear Buck crunching, grinding through the beast’s back with his cleaver. He can hear the beast scream too. Buck, though. Buck is quiet as he works. After that, everything goes red and hazy, the border between the Dream and Waking starting to blur, pink around the corners of Yalda’s vision. 

His eyes don’t clear until he feels a jab in the meat of his thigh, sharp and distinct through the dull throb of dying. Then a second poke. Blood vials. Oh, Buck must have won.

Yalda pushes himself up, legs extended in front of him and arms still shaking. The beast’s carcass sits just to his side, a mangled mess. Yalda can still smell it. 

Buck crouches in front of him, pale eyes narrowed in concentration. He doesn’t breathe a word. But seemingly satisfied with Yalda’s condition, Buck stands, turning his back and walking off. 

Pushing himself to his feet, Yalda grabs his cane and follows.

\--

The Cathedral Giant catches Buck across the face with its heavy mace, splintering his skull into dozens of pieces. Some of them hit the street, some of them catch in the air, hanging longer than they should.

Yalda blames himself. He should have been more aggressive, holding the giant’s attention while Buck worked. He does what he can to atone, lashing out with his chain whip across the giant’s legs. After a single sweep, he tries to slip between the giant and the wall, get in behind the massive living statue and strike quickly at the backs of its knees. But the giant steps out, crushing Yalda between the wall and its massive leg. Reducing him to a messy smear.

What a bother.

\--

Arising in the dream, Yalda brushes the hair away from his forehead, holding it up at odd angles while he waits for his vision to clear. He blinks several times before the Doll comes into focus, her pale face unmoved and large, long fingers twined together in front of her chest. 

“Oh, hullo there, Doll,” Yalda says, trying to get to his feet. He can’t figure out how other Hunters seem to die with dignity. Every time, he feels a wreck.

“Good Hunter,” she acknowledges, “may I help you?”

Yalda shakes his head, notching his cane into his belt for the time being. Looking around, he finds the Dream empty. Only moments passed between he and Buck dying, but Buck must have already returned to the Hunt. “I’m fine,” Yalda promises, pushing at his shirt sleeves. 

The Doll only tilts her head to one side, gray hair coming loose from her bonnet and falling over her shoulder. That’s new, a subtle change Yalda isn't sure how to interpret. 

Approaching the headstone, Yalda prepares to wake. To continue on. He doesn’t have another choice. Even if he did...he’s come to accept his fate. As a Hunter, he can help. By killing the afflicted and saving those who remain in Yharnam’s streets, he's helpful. There have been precious few survivors. But each soul makes his toil, the pain and uncertainty, worth it.

He hadn’t had the strength to be good before. Now, with the blood ministrations and the Dream, all things seem possible. 

Yalda wakes at the lantern, expecting to be alone. But Buck is waiting, leaning against the closest stone building, latching and unlatching his clever. Knowing better than to speak, Yalda dips his head, following after when Buck picks a direction. 

\--

It’s a rare occasion indeed, when Buck and Yalda share the Dream. 

Even in the safety of slumber, Buck still stays quiet, stalking off in the direction of the gardens. Yalda doesn’t bother to follow. If Buck needs the time alone, he’s entitled to it. The Dream is meant to be a comfort, after all.

Yalda busies himself conversing with the Doll, telling her all manner of stories about the Hunt. He can never be certain if she enjoys the tales or not. But his stories are always met with a gentle smile. She calls him good and touches his hair, before folding her hands again. 

He tries not to exaggerate, but he thinks that he and Buck work well together. Letting one of them brunt the damage while the other moves in for the kill saves them vials in the long run. And Yalda doesn’t mind the pain. He knows it’s only temporary. In the Dream, his hands are still soft and his face unscarred. His back is a mess of puffy tissue and old welts, but the blood minstration has started to even repair that damage that long preceded Yalda joining the Hunt.

“He’s faster than I, and more careful. There is a lot I have yet to learn,” Yalda admits, sitting on the stone ledge with the Doll across from him. “But I’m getting better, every time I fight, I know I’m better than the last. Oh,” he waves his hands in front of his face, “And you are to thank for that as well. I could have never done any of this without you,” he thanks the Doll.

She only smiles in response. 

It is difficult to tell how much time has passed. Still, Buck has not returned. Yalda excuses himself, leaning forward to kiss the Doll on her cheek before departing for the gardens. 

Messengers rise up around his feet, chirping as he follows the worn path. Crouching down, he says hello to them as well, though he can’t understand what they say in return. But they always sound happy.

He works the unlocked latch to the gardens open, stepping into the sea of flowers. Expecting Buck’s dark clothing to stand out against the green and white meadow, Yalda is concerned when he finds the garden empty. 

Buck must have woken without Yalda noticing.

\--

Yalda must pick a headstone, a lantern. He does not know where Buck has gone. Likely, his friend did not want to be followed.

Sighing, Yalda kneels, willing himself to enter the Forbidden Woods. He has always liked the trees.

\--

The forests are haunted by creatures vile and beautiful. Poison and wicked magics. The desperation of the Hunt seeps out of Yharnam like a plague, infecting everything that breathes it in.

Still, Yalda finds the forests lovely, despite their darkness, despite their danger. He is careful as he creeps through the foliage, keeping downwind of the predators that lurk in the underbrush.

Light filters in through the canopy, diffuse green and tinged with fog. It casts the forest in a glow that makes Yalda shiver when he stands still for too long.

Tucking in against a sheer rocky wall, Yalda makes himself small, sitting in the dirt and wrapping his arms around his legs. He watches the forest move. 

He should be looking for his next kill. Should be, should be. The Hunt will not last forever. At least, that is what the Doll says, when Yalda asks. Night will come to an end. Only the right Hunter must follow the right path. Yalda is certain he is not that Hunter. But he will help as many people as he can.

The wind swells, shaking the leaves above, rattling in the quiet of the long night. 

\--

Yalda is giddy when he returns to the Dream, flush with blood from a string of beautiful kills. It stains across his pinked cheeks, warm and radiant. 

“You should have seen me,” he sing-songs to the Doll. He takes his cane in hand, aiming at the empty space between them and retracing the steps he took, the swipes he made, “caught two of them at once!” He laughs again, lowering his weapon. “I'll move faster now. I'm getting better.”

The Doll smiles in response, hands folded in her lap, “Of course, Good Hunter.”

It doesn't bother Yalda that she never says his name. She doesn't say Buck’s name either. It's only ever “Good Hunter” for them both. What she says is true. They are both good men. 

Yalda flops down on the stone shelf next to her, pulling his legs up so his feet rest against the wall. Chewing at the inside of his mouth, he looks around, trying to confirm that they're alone. Gehrman must be somewhere. But he is always dozing. 

“Can I ask you something?” Yalda starts. He knows the Doll won't object. He knows the Doll has little choice. Only, he hopes that his company is pleasant, even when he's not cheerful. 

Reaching out, the Doll brushes against his cheek, her hand comes away bloody.

“Sorry, sorry,” Yalda apologizes, pulling his sleeves over his hands and rubbing at his face. When he wakes, his clothing will be clean again, so he doesn't mind the stains. “Better?”

The Doll nods softly.

“Has...has Buck been here? Since the last time...I'm only worried,” Yalda babbles, trying not to tread into hysterics. He's worried, deeply worried. Though he has the utmost faith in Buck’s abilities. Buck is...stronger, harder, more clever than he is. Though neither have spoken much of their pasts, Yalda is certain that Buck’s is more harrowing than his own. Yalda was an obedient, sickly ward of the state. Yalda had never so much as struck someone in anger before agreeing to the Hunt. 

“Oh yes,” the Doll assures him, though her voice has little inflection. “Many times.”

Yalda breathes, trying to slow his racing heart. Buck is fine. Only, he no longer wants Yalda’s company. No bother, no bother. It must get tiresome, hauling Yalda around, making up for his inadequacies.

“Do you want me to tell the Good Hunter you seek him?” she asks. Yalda can't stop staring at her bloody hand, limp across her lap.

“Yes,” he blurts out, before walking back on his exclamation, “no, it's fine. No bother.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I need to go repair my cane, before I leave.”

The Doll only smiles. Yalda leans over to kiss her cheek.

\--

The repairs Yalda must make are simple. But he takes a great deal of time, lingering over the workbench. He double, triple checks his work. He examines each gemstone slot, switching between configurations. 

When he hears another voice outside the workshop doors, he freezes, his hands going still. Buck is here.

Yalda leaves his cane on the workbench, creeping to the empty doorway to look down onto the path. 

Buck stands at attention in front of the Doll, offering his hand. Yalda watches as the Doll helps Buck channel his powers, faint wisps of burgundy smoke swirling around his body, catching in his long cloak, causing it to rise. It's not polite to stare, but Yalda cannot help himself. Buck looks just as lovely as ever, his dark attire contrasting with fair skin. Black hair falling into pale eyes.

Once Buck and the Doll complete their ritual, Buck looks up towards the workshop. Yalda gives him a cautious, little wave, not knowing what to expect.

Buck’s mouth does not move, lips still pressed into a thin line. Almost a frown. But he climbs the path, hands shoved in his trouser pockets.

“Leaving soon?” Buck asks, his volume low and voice level.

“Yes,” Yalda says, pulling down his shirtsleeves. His jacket is hung near the door.

“I'm ready when you are,” Buck says, before turning and heading back down the slope. He waits in front of the Yharnam Headstone while Yalda grabs his jacket and cane.

\--

They work in quicker succession now, trading off the dangerous job of baiting beasts. Yalda still strikes first, rushing in against the towering, long limbed wolf and striking against its exposed side to draw its attention. But Buck is right behind him, darting to the left and behind the beast, swiping with his cleaver, hard enough that the beast turns. 

Yalda thrusts his cane, once, twice, three times. Until Buck skips backwards, letting the beast disengage and refocus back on Yalda. Stepping back, Yalda narrowly avoids the beast’s claws, before ducking low and hitting fast and hard. 

The beast falls when Buck comes up from behind, burying his cleaver in its skull.

Yalda’s breath comes harshly, his heart racing in the cage of his chest. But it only takes a moment to come down from the high of battle. The coppery scent of blood is thick in the foggy air. Yharnam feels perpetually wet, though it doesn't rain.

“We should check the windows,” Yalda finally says, coming to his senses. “See if there are any survivors. They can go to the chapel.”

Buck is quiet as Yalda taps at the first window. No answer.

“They’ll never make it back,” Buck says.

Yalda holds his hand in front of the glass, his fingers curled, ready to knock again. “We can escort them,” he argues.

Buck shakes his head.

Yalda knocks. No answer.

\--

Buck fidgets with the summons letter, tearing at the corners of the envelope. Yalda watches his hands as they worry at the edges. They've both read the paper inside. The letter is addressed to Buck. But the carriage that arrived at the crossroads ushered them both inside. Yalda doesn't want to dwell on what that means.

A blizzard grips them as they travel to Cainhurst, the temperature inside the carriage drops. Buck stares out the window. Yalda stares at Buck. This excursion may be a mistake. But Yalda is glad they are making the journey together.

Wind rattles the carriage’s glass panes, setting Yalda’s teeth on edge.

Turning from the window, Buck looks at Yalda for what feels like the first time in ages. His elbow still pressed against the glass, he rests his chin on his hand, “you knock at all the windows. Even the ones that are not lit.”

Yalda finds the question curious. The answer he thinks is self-evident. “If someone is unwell, or scared, maybe they wouldn't be able to light their lantern. That doesn't mean they don't want our help.”

Buck turns back towards the window, staring out into the endless white abyss. “It's not our task to help people. We are meant to kill the beasts.”

Curling his hands into fists, Yalda’s nails bite into his palms. “What is the point of killing beasts, if good people do not survive? If they are not safe?”

Buck chuckles, as if what Yalda says is very silly. But Yalda has seen Buck tap at dark windowpanes as well.

\--

The screaming has stopped, the ghostly specters of Cainhurst dispatched one by one. Yalda looks down at his hands. They're clean. The women did not bleed. And the weedy, bumbling servants of the household never once threatened the Hunters. They remained absorbed in their duties, even as Buck and Yalda fought back the wailing ladies.

Buck clicks the door shut behind them. He turns the lock and grabs the nearest chair, jamming it under the door handle. Eyeing the bookcase, he must be considering throwing that down in front of the door as well.

Yalda sets about making sure the rest of the room is secure. He opens every trunk, every dresser drawer, the cabinets. He looks behind the opposite bookcase. If the room is safe, they can rest a spell before continuing on.

Though they never tire on the Hunt, Yalda can tell Buck’s nerves are frayed. His gloved hands twitch around the handle of his cleaver. Yalda tries to calm him, whispering that they're alone now.

Relaxed for the moment, Yalda turns his attention back to the room. He sets his gaze on the large wooden trunk in one corner, latched together with heavy iron joints. Where before, he was only searching for traps, he's now curious about the contents of the chest.

Inside the chest lay bundles of richly colored fabric, gold and cream and bloody burgundy. Crouching in front of their spoils, Yalda pulls the attire out, finding three dresses in total, fit for a slim maiden of great wealth. He lays the gowns out across the dusty floor, smiling at how pretty they are.

Yalda grabs the loveliest of the three. The one least faded by time and fewest holes to mend. Dipping behind the changing screen, he starts to strip from his jacket, shirt, and breeches. He throws his Hunter’s attire over the edge of the screen, keeping them off the floor.

The satin of the dress feels cool and slick against his skin. The long, narrow sleeves wrap tightly around his arms, and there is too much excess fabric across his flat chest, bunching up around his sternum. But the gown clings nicely to his waist before flaring out, stopping an inch or so before the floor. Yalda slips out of his boots and barefoot, the skirts skim the ground as intended.

Giddy with his own appearance, Yalda steps out from behind the screen, smiling at Buck when the other Hunter goes wide-eyed. 

“Couldn't help myself,” Yalda laughs, twirling in place and letting the skirts dance around his bony legs. “What do you think?” The skirts fall back down around him like a cloud, catching in the air before floating back towards his feet.

Buck stares. The grunt he gives is near incomprehensible. But Yalda knows by now he doesn't mean it to be rude. Likely, Buck just hasn't made up his mind. Yalda was hoping for a compliment, but perhaps Buck doesn't like it. Well, Buck is entitled to his opinion.

Yalda picks up the other dresses, tossing them back into the chest. “Here,” he smiles, “let's find you something too.”

“Why?” Buck asks, his voice raspy from disuse. They haven't had opportunity to speak to each other since entering the castle. The wailing women stole both their voices.

“Didn't you ever...play make-believe as a child?” Yalda knows little of Buck’s life before the Hunt. Only that it was more brutal than Yalda’s. Though an orphan, and often ill, Yalda’s childhood had been rather sheltered. The nuns of his hometown at the crossroads looked after him until he came of age. Poverty and sickness have been Yalda’s only hardships. The leaden feeling of hunger, the cold bleak dark of loneliness.

Buck sighs, stepping away from the door and towards the center of the room. “Not usually with shrieking ghosts wielding rapiers trying to murder me in the other room.”

“We’ve taken care of them all. And you'll be useless in a fight, if your hands are shaking,” Yalda argues, turning to rifle through the wardrobe and find something Buck might be comfortable wearing. 

When Yalda turns his back on Buck, the hissing noise the other Hunter makes reminds Yalda of what he so easily forgets on the Hunt. The back of the dress is cut low. Low enough that the mangled scars down his spine and across his shoulders are in full view. He can feel the heat of Buck’s hand, close, but too afraid to touch.

“They're from before,” Yalda explains, unwilling to turn around and expose the blush on his cheeks. “I came to Yharnam for the blood ministration, to try and slow the spread. It's worked,” he forces a smile into his tone. The best results of the blood are the ones Buck cannot see.

“You came to Yharnam to be cured?” Buck asks.

Yalda nods, “You can touch them, if you want,” he doesn't realize until after the words have left his mouth that the offer might be odd. “The nuns didn't like the other children touching them. But they always did. They said I felt funny…”

Buck lays his palm flat against Yalda’s back, his thumb rubbing gently against scar tissue. Shivering, Yalda wants to ask Buck what it feels like. If he likes it? If Buck wants to touch him in other places? But Yalda can barely keep from screaming. Now he's the one too tightly wound. He's at the precipice of breaking, when Buck pulls his hand back.

Trying to distract himself, Yalda pulls a fine shirt from the wardrobe, in the same burgundy as his dress. The sleeves puff out around the wrists, all the way to the elbow, and it's clearly meant to be worn with the dark vest and trousers on the next hook. 

Yalda tries offering the set to Buck, who scoffs.

Frowning, Yalda puts the shirt back on the hanger. He won't force Buck to play along, when Buck turns his attention to a suit of armor against the opposite wall. 

The set is trimmed in red, a long cape attached to the shoulders. Otherwise, the steel-gray armor falls in delicate plates that look almost softly folded. Buck runs his hand over the front of the chest piece. “Do you think it will fit me?”

Yalda nods, looking for the clasps that will let them remove the armor from the stand. Buck takes the silver helmet off first. Intricately carved, it's not immediately apparent how one is supposed to see through the finely crafted helmet. Buck turns it over in his hands, examining the inside. 

It takes the two of them to figure out how to get Buck into the armor. Yalda laughs when his touch lingers against Buck’s tunic too long, his nails dragging against coarse cotton. If Buck notices, he says nothing. In time, Buck gets each piece on. The armor fits him exquisitely. Yalda’s chest flares with excitement.

With Yalda in bare feet and Buck in boots, the difference in their heights, normally imperceptible, is exaggerated. Yalda has to look up to try and see Buck’s eyes. But they're obscured by the helmet, just his pink lips visible under where the metal edge comes to a beak-like point. 

“My knight,” Yalda jokes, grabbing at his skirts.

Buck might not realize that Yalda can still see him smile.

\--

Yalda sits atop the rune altar, sorting through his choices. Beautifully carved glyphs on smooth stone, carrying unseen powers he can feel winding around his bones. He holds each rune in turn, trying to discern their powers, before flipping them over and reading the glyph on the other side. How does he know what the lines mean? He has seen nothing like them before the Dream. And yet, he knows. He can read them.

Footsteps at the workshop doorway rouse him from his solitary task. Buck stands in the archway, looking as tired and triumphant as ever, his long coat settled over his shoulders like a cape, arms free and crossed over his chest.

Yalda gives Buck a wave, smiling at his companion’s presence. They have not been parted for long, but out of politeness, Yalda greets him with a soft, “Hullo.”

Buck nods, before responding, “Hello,” and heading for the workbench, his cleaver extended. He bangs the weapon harshly on the bench, making the tools left along the tabletop rattle at the force.

As Buck repairs his weapon, Yalda sorts through his runes again, trying to kill time. He hopes that Buck will ask to travel together again. Even after what they saw at Cainhurst. No worse, really, than anywhere else on the Hunt.

Still, thinking about the Vileblood Queen makes Yalda queasy. Why of all the things he's seen, is it Annalise who makes him squirm?

Yalda hears Buck’s breathing turn ragged. His hands unsteady as he tries and fails to repair his weapon. 

Yalda likes working with his hands. He thinks, in a different life, he could have designed weapons such as these. There are ideas swirling in his head, but he lacks the time and materials to make them a reality. The Hunt is all consuming.

“Do you need help, Buck?”

Buck sneers, knuckles turning white as he grips the handle of his cleaver. When he turns, Yalda sees nothing but frustration in his features. But just as soon, the expression passes, Buck forcing his face back to neutral. “No, I,” Buck shakes his head, letting go of his cleaver.

“Come here,” Yalda beckons, setting his rune collection aside.

Buck hesitates, but steps away from the workbench, coming to stand in front of Yalda. Reaching out, Yalda grabs one of Buck’s hands, cradling it between both of his. Buck’s hand shakes. Yalda runs his fingers over the back of Buck’s hand, over his palm, dancing across each line. 

They're so close now that Yalda can feel the heat of Buck’s body, seeping through his clothes. It's reassuring, knowing that they're both still warm. They haven't been reduced to walking corpses. 

“What are you doing?” Buck asks. And though his voice is pinched, his heartbeat has slowed.

Yalda looks up, into Buck’s eyes, “Hmm, trying to comfort you. Trying to be kind.” He laces his fingers through Buck’s, folding them down until he touches Buck’s knuckles. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“I…” Buck’s voice fades out. Yalda presses his free hand to Buck’s side, trying to coax him closer.

Buck steps closer to the altar, just a fraction, one of his legs on either side of Yalda’s bent knee. Tensing the muscles of his thigh, Yalda lifts his leg to brush against Buck’s groin. This can be as much, or as little, as Buck needs it to be. Yalda is willing to bend, to accommodate. 

The only thing rushing between Yalda’s ears is, “Don't go.”

But Buck pulls away.

\--

Following Buck across the Hunt would be pointless, there are too many paths and possibilities. Buck could be anywhere. So, Yalda continues on alone. Even when he fails, he tries to greet the Doll with a steady smile, saying it's good to see her again.

He visits the chapel too, asking Arianna if there is absolutely anything she needs. Arianna calls him a sweet boy and squeezes his wrist. She is thankful enough for the safety the incense brings.

The chapel attendant says they have incense yet to burn. Though the night of the Hunt is long, they are well prepared. Yalda needn't trouble himself over such trivial concerns.

“Has Buck been here?” Yalda asks, his chest tightening as he finds the courage to admit he has been searching for his friend.

“Yes, yes, of course,” the attendant tells him. “It's a wonder you haven't run into each other.”

Over his shoulder, Yalda hears Arianna laugh. 

Yalda is glad at least, to be an amusement in such dark times.

\--

Exhausted, Yalda’s head spins. His body aches all over, the blood vial working swiftly, but there is so much pain he must endure while it weaves his bones back together. Each time he breathes, he feels his ribs scraping at his lungs. Trying to hold his breath helps the pain subside. But he must take a deeper gulp of air as his oxygen runs low. He whimpers into the anguish.

The lantern is not far. If he can only make a dash for it. He does not know how many creatures clog the halls between his sheltered alcove and the lantern’s glow. But maybe he can make his legs work well enough to run past them. If only he could breathe.

Yalda coughs, trying to stifle the noise in the crook of his arm. The blood spews out across his coat sleeve. 

Pushing himself to his feet, Yalda sways to one side, catching himself against the solid building on one side. He huffs, making sure his organs will hold if he runs. While his chest still hurts, the pain can be ignored. 

Keeping his eyes open, Yalda runs, his cane ready if he has to strike. But his first instinct is for escape, survival. He’ll die and die and die again, caught by the soft hands of the Dream. But right now every inch of him screams to live.

The beast ahead is sharp to see him. It crouches low, ready to lunge. The narrow hall leaves no space to dodge. Yalda holds his cane in two hands in front of his body, smashing into the beast and taking it to the ground. The pain flares up again as Yalda scrambles to his feet, dashing in the direction of the lantern.

He can hear the gnashing of teeth, the terrible drip of saliva and thick mucus, falling from the beast’s mouth, the sound of padded feet racing across the ground.

But up ahead the messengers rise to greet him, clicking and whistling happily to see their Hunter return to the dream. Their white bones shine bright in the light of the lantern.

Yalda trips forward, grabbing at the lantern as he falls. The beast is close enough that he feels the pressure of its hulking body land on top of him before he crosses the line into the Dream.

\--

The Doll is nowhere to be seen. 

Yalda looks down into his hands, at his coat where he coughed up blood. He's clean. He presses his hand flat to his chest and breathes. The pain is gone. Yet is still feels addled, weak. The feeling should pass. It always does.

He starts to ascend the stairs to the workshop and finds Gehrman asleep in his chair inside. From the workshop, he can hear the Doll, praying by a grave just through the other entrance. He won't disturb her sorrow.

Taking off his coat, Yalda hangs his jacket and cane by the doorway. He pushes up his shirtsleeves. Before too long, he’ll have to return to the Hunt. But for now, he only wants to walk in the quiet of the Dream.

He takes the stairs back down, stopping to coo over the messengers as they come up to meet him. He compliments their choice of ribbon, bright red and tied in a perfect bow. They look so charming! He tells them as much as they scuttle back down beneath the surface.

Hands suck in the pockets of his trousers, Yalda continues on to the gardens. Gehrman always locks the gate. But Yalda knows that Buck picks the lock at his leisure. 

The field of pale flowers stretch out before him, glowing in the light of the heavy moon, so full and close to the horizon that Yalda is sure it will burst. The idea of it makes Yalda shudder. 

Settled on the gently sloping hill, just where the largest of the garden’s trees reaches across the sky, Yalda sees a patch of dark, rumpled attire, curled up on the ground.

He hopes Buck won't mind the company. That Buck has forgiven him for his advances. Yalda is terribly sorry, for having read the comradery between them wrong. He wishes to make his apologies. Then, perhaps, they may hunt together again.

Yalda walks through the carpet of flowers, soft petals brushing against his pant legs. Buck does not stir, his figure silent and still.

Once Yalda is close, he opens his mouth to alert Buck to his presence. He hopes not to startle his friend. But as he begins to form his words, Buck’s hand darts out, grabbing Yalda by his wrist and dragging him down into the grass.

Yalda tumbles forward, landing on his knees. Buck pulls at his shoulder, until Yalda looms over him on all fours.

Buck’s hood is down, bunched up around his ears. His black hair spread out around his head, tangled in white blooms. They make his eyes look paler. Almost ashen.

“Buck?” Yalda asks, rocking back onto his heels to get away. But Buck grabs his arm, keeping him in place. 

“Yalda…”

Buck so rarely uses his name. 

Were Yalda not already dreaming, he'd be beside himself with want. Hollow and dry and warm, burning inside his body, strangling his good sense. 

“I want to comfort you too,” Buck says, loosening his grip on Yalda’s arm, trailing loose fingers down to Yalda’s elbow, just where his rolled up sleeves give way to exposed flesh. The touch makes Yalda’s skin electric. 

Yalda dips his head low, close enough that they could kiss, if Buck wants. And oh, oh Yalda wants. But he can be as much, or as little as Buck needs. Affection comes in many forms. And Yalda appreciates all of them. They can do this and remain friends. If it is what Buck wants.

Buck’s hand comes up to wrap around the back of Yalda’s neck, his thumb brushing against Yalda’s vertebrae. Craning his neck, Buck closes the gap between them, pressing his lips to Yalda’s in a kiss that is soft, fleeting as Buck pulls away to rest his head in the grass.

Yalda chases after him, kissing Buck this time in sloppy earnestness, opening his mouth against Buck’s slightly parted lips, moaning in response when Buck’s mouth opens too. 

Buck’s hands creep down Yalda’s sides, pulling at his tunic until it comes untucked. Yalda hisses as Buck slides both hands under his shirt, rucking up the fabric and dragging his nails across Yalda’s chest.

Grinding down, Yalda increases the friction between their bodies, feeling Buck’s cock jump inside his trousers as Yalda’s groin brushes against it. Whining high in the back of his throat, Yalda pleads, “Please, please,” and tangles his hand in Buck’s hair. He thrusts down against Buck’s leg, making his desire clear.

Yalda wants to be everywhere against Buck’s flesh. Skin on skin. The heat of a humanity Yalda can feel slipping away. With every kill, he worries that he loses himself. But with Buck’s warm hands against his body, Yalda is certain he's still a good man. Because nothing so sweet could ever be allowed to a beast.

Buck pulls at Yalda’s shirt again, until it comes over his head, static sticking in his hair. Yalda can't help but smile at the way Buck’s breath catches in his throat, how his pupils readjust in the shining well of his irises.

They tug and twist until Buck is out of his shirt too, before settling back into the soft grass. Yalda plants his hands on Buck’s chest, canting his hips forward to thrust against Buck’s crotch. Their erections brush together through the barrier of their trousers.

“You could fuck me,” Yalda offers, pressing down against Buck. “If you'd like.”

Buck groans, throwing his head back and shutting his eyes. His hands wrap around Yalda’s hips, fingers digging in just above the waistband of Yalda’s trousers. Yalda smiles in triumph. Buck seems agreeable to the idea.

Yalda opens Buck’s trousers, reaching inside and dragging out his erection, full and hard and already leaking from the tip. Buck shifts in anticipation, his eyes fluttering open, then closed again. Yalda strokes Buck’s cock, keeping his hand tight around his shaft.

“Do you have your pack?” Yalda asks, smiling each time Buck’s cock swells in his hand. Buck’s breathing comes in staggered gasps as Yalda works him.

Buck gestures in the direction of his bag. Yalda doesn't want to move away, lest he break the spell between them. But he needs something to wet himself. He climbs off Buck to grab his bag, rifling inside and finding oil. While the origin of the slick is suspect at best, Yalda is convinced that the Dream will keep him from being damaged. 

On his way back to Buck, Yalda shimmies out of his trousers, tossing them aside. He leans over Buck, leaning over to capture his lips one more time.

Spreading his knees wide, Yalda reaches behind himself with his slicked hand. He keeps his other palm flat on Buck’s chest. The first finger goes in easily, sliding almost halfway in before Yalda hits resistance. 

“You should let me do that for you,” Buck rasps, skimming his fingers down Yalda’s chest. 

“Do you want to?” Yalda asks. There's more oil.

Buck nods, sitting up with Yalda in his lap. Yalda reaches over to grab the oil, uncapping the jar and smearing it over Buck’s hand.

“Start with two,” Yalda says, sure that they will fit.

Buck tucks his fingers close together, reading around to circle around Yalda’s hole. It's a tight fit, as Buck breaches him, sliding to the first knuckle, before slipping back out.

Yalda’s cock bounces against his stomach, growing hard again under Buck’s attention. Buck slides his fingers in again, deeper this time, before spreading them, scissoring Yalda open. The stretch is pleasant. Familiar. But Yalda has a dizzy sense that this isn't his body. Not his real body. An imperfect replica. But Yalda can't place what's different. 

“Good, so good,” Yalda murmurs, burying his face in Buck’s hair. He tries to spread his knees wider in the grass, giving Buck more space to work his hole. Buck wraps his free hand around Yalda’s back, holding him in place as he plunges his fingers in. “I'm ready,” Yalda assures Buck, once the third finger slips in. 

He's already drunk on the sensation of being filled, being close and cared for. But he wants Buck to enjoy this too. He wants Buck to whine and plead, to say his name again. To forget for a moment their grim task ahead.

Buck shifts his weight to tug his trousers the rest of the way off, tossing them somewhere in the grass. Yalda runs his still slick hand over Buck’s shaft, adding what oil remains. 

“Lay on your back,” Yalda coaxes, “I'll ride you.”

Buck nods furiously, settling back down. He plants his elbows in the soft earth, looking up while Yalda straddles his thighs again.

Yalda holds Buck’s cock in place as he starts to sink down, stretching to accommodate the width, a little more than Buck’s fingers. Breathing through his teeth, Yalda pushes down, Buck’s gasps ringing in his ears. His vision goes unfocused for a moment as he bottoms out, settling in Buck’s lap. Reaching out, Buck paws at him, trying to bring them closer.

“You're beautiful like this,” Buck whispers, “you really are.”

Yalda smiles. Men say many lovely things when aroused. Leaning forward, he kisses at the corner of Buck’s mouth.

“You're always beautiful,” Buck concludes, before flopping back into the grass.

Yalda flushes at that, the implication that maybe, maybe this could be more than sex. It doesn't have to be. But the thought is nice. Makes Yalda’s belly warm.

No longer supporting his own weight, Buck wraps his arms around Yalda the best he can. Stretched open, Yalda starts to draw back up, letting Buck’s cock drag through him before dropping back down. As Yalda finds his rhythm, Buck starts thrusting up to meet him. Hands roaming across Yalda’s chest, his hips, his thighs. 

Buck’s more talkative than he's ever been, murmuring praise and sweet compliments. How good Yalda is, how tight and warm and precious. The affections blur together when Buck wraps his hand around Yalda’s cock. 

“I'm close,” Buck stifles, “please, Yalda...please.” 

Yalda isn't sure what Buck is asking for. But he hopes he can provide.

“Let me come inside you...” Buck whines, tightening his grip on Yalda’s cock.

Yalda nods swiftly, raking his nails down the front of Buck’s chest harder than he intended. “Yes, oh, yes, yes, yes.”

Buck comes with a groan, thrusting sharply and nearly catching Yalda off balance. Through the haze of his own orgasm, Yalda can feel Buck filling him. He knows it will be gone when they wake. He’ll be dry between his legs.

But as Yalda floats down from the fog of his pleasure, he sees his own come striped across Buck’s stomach, pooling at his navel. Buck’s eyes are wide and he looks well fucked, loopy and softly smiling.

“Yalda, Yalda, Yalda,” he laughs with a kind of innocent joy.

“Buck.” 

Yalda falls forward, tucking his face against Buck’s neck, damp with sweat. If only they could always smell of flowers.


	2. Chapter 2

The sweat and grime of the Hunt clings to Yalda’s temples, grit under his nails and in his hair. Buck dashes on ahead, crouching low against the door and reaching into his boot.

“Cover me,” Buck says, hairpin in between his teeth while he pokes his finger at the exterior of the lock.

Yalda holds his cane, ready to strike if the afflicted find their position. The two hunters have backtracked through Yharnam’s streets, trying to find Eileen the Crow. Their search has not gone well. And the moon hangs so low as to touch the ground, horrors clinging to the beautiful stone facades. Monsters have lived in the cursed city for a long time, only Yalda wasn't clever enough to see before the arrival of the moon.

Having the insight now will drive Yalda mad. He is certain.

Buck works the lock, trying to push the pins into place. He curses underneath his breath, when he fails his first attempt.

Yalda feels sweat rolling down his spine, the night is warm. He listens for footsteps, grunts, and screams. He tries to block out the baby’s cries, that emanate from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

Standing, Buck pulls at Yalda’s coat sleeve, dragging him into the open doorway. Without a word, Buck locks the door, looking for something he can shove against it. Yalda, without being asked, searches the cabinet for incense. Something to keep the beasts away.

Yalda finds the incense, lights it, and lets his eyes adjust to the dimness of the home they've broken into. It's a small, two room apartment, common in the once-densely populated center of the city. A bed tucked in one corner, built-in shelving against two walls, and a narrow hall leading back to a sparse kitchen, barely enough room to boil some water.

How long has Yalda been in the Dream? How long since he's eaten or drank or slept? It feels like a single evening, a matter of hours since his transfusion and the contract. But when Yalda thinks of everything he's done, all the places he's seen and the beasts he's killed, the number of times he's died only to wake at the workshop, the Doll offering him her hand...he has been dreaming a week, maybe more. 

Yalda looks over at Buck, hunched with his forehead against the door, his shoulders rising and falling with every breath. 

Longer, longer than a week.

Yalda cannot figure out if Buck’s arrival in the Hunt followed or preceded his. He knows, in a distant sort of way, that Hunters who overstay their welcome transform into the very worst of beasts. But Buck is still so beautifully, pristinely, human. 

Longer, then, Yalda has been here longer than Buck. Because he feels the tendrils of madness, or something like them, fizzing in his brain. 

“Yalda?” 

Only then does Yalda realize Buck has been repeating his name for some time.

Buck has turned to put his back against the door, his hands pressed back flat against the wood. His eyes are so light as to catch the flicker of the burning incense, even though it is little more than an ember. 

“I'm sorry,” Yalda forces a smile, wills his fists to unclench. He reaches up to push his hair away from his forehead, trying to find something to say. Something not weird. “I'm tired, is all.”

It's a lie, and Buck must know it, because the Hunt, the Dream keeps him in the same suspended existence as Yalda. But Buck, sweet Buck, does not question Yalda’s response, only nodding. Pushing himself away from the door, he takes two steps towards the bed.

Yalda’s eyes follow him across the room. Buck is all smooth grace and deliberate gestures. Pulling back the covers, Buck stares at the sheets, clean and white. Buck turns, sitting down before unlacing his bloodied boots, thickly coated with the muck of battle. They haven't used the lantern for some time now, and the layers of death are building up.

“You said you're tired, right?” Buck looks up as he pulls off his first boot, tossing it to the side. 

Yalda’s mouth feels full of ashes. If Buck can pretend, so can he, “Yeah.” 

He sits to Buck’s side, trying to work his laces loose, though his hands are shaking. His coat is just as badly soiled, and before finishes with his boots, he stands to shuck the jacket.

Buck follows suit and they strip down to their undergarments. Yalda hesitates to take off the thin shirt he wears under his Hunter’s garb. He's not ashamed of his body, not really, or his desires. Only natural. Only human. But Buck’s gaze cuts straight through him, pale and cool, detached. When Yalda feels little else but the skittering warmth of want across his stomach. 

They climb into bed together, side by side. Though they both know full well they cannot sleep, not like this. Buck doesn't even bother to pull the sheets back over their chilling bodies. Their pretense only stretches so far.

“This is nice,” Buck says, his hands folded over his bare chest. His ribs show when he breathes, through his arms are nicely muscled and his stomach flat. He stares up at the ceiling, “I haven't gotten to lay down in a proper bed in ages.”

Yalda has about had enough of beds for as many lifetimes as he's now died. The starched sheets and itchy blankets remind him of illness, of weakness, of the man he was before the blood. The man he fears he’ll yet be when the Hunt comes to a close.

As close as they are, Yalda can smell the musk of blood and sweat and Buck still clinging to his friend’s skin. Taking off their dirtied clothes has done little to mask the toil of death. And it is a toil, a job, one Yalda now performs with as much precision as he can muster. When he closes his eyes, he sees cut open corpses behind his lids.

“Yalda,” Buck’s voice comes soft again. He’s rolled onto his side, reaching out to slot his fingers into Yalda’s hair. Dark, messy strands cut across Buck’s own face, just long enough to pool against the sheets.

Yalda groans despite himself, Buck’s name coming from the hollow inside his chest. He grabs Buck’s wrist pulling it away to make room to roll closer into Buck’s seeping warmth. Their lips meet first, with teeth and tongue following after. Buck is quiet, so quiet, as he opens his mouth, shifts his hips so their bodies press together.

Trying to pull Buck close, Yalda’s hands shake as he clings. His eyes stay open, watching as Buck’s close. 

“Please,” he whines, nails biting into the thin skin around Buck’s hips, until pinkish welts start to rise. “Let me have you, let me, let me.” Yalda’s so tense he feels like shattering, right there and then as Buck reaches down to cup his cock through the cotton of his underwear. Buck’s fingers roll gently, keeping him pulled tight. 

Buck kisses at the corner of Yalda’s jaw, nodding his assent. 

“I’ll be good to you, so good,” Yalda promises, pawing at Buck until he’s flipped over onto his stomach, face buried in the pillow. 

Reaching over the side of the bed, Yalda grabs his pack for oil. Since they started laying together, they’ve managed to find lubricant more suitable for their activities. Though their supply is already running low. Yalda gives himself over at every opportunity, though he worries Buck will tire of him, think him too easy or too desperate. But Yalda wants Buck too much to really care. He knows their time together is finite. That their Hunt will end. 

Buck shoves down his underwear while Yalda slicks his fingers with oil, carefully placing the sealed bottle on the nightstand. Settling between Buck’s legs, he wraps his other arm around Buck’s waist from behind, pulling him up onto all fours with his thighs gently parted. Yalda holds him tight as he runs his index finger down the cleft of Buck’s ass, slowly pushing in. He’s trying to be gentle, to be kind. Buck hasn’t taken Yalda before, and Yalda is unsure how comfortable Buck really is.

But Buck’s hitched breathing turns to gentle pants as Yalda works him open, sliding in his middle finger next to his index. He spreads them open until Buck’s body resists, then easing up the pressure. Buck’s body is warm against his thighs and chest, as Yalda holds him close. Part of Yalda wishes he could see Buck’s face, but he’s almost certain his composure would break, if he were to look into those eyes.

Eyes that will forget him, in time.

Pants give way to whines, wordless but easily interpreted, as Buck reaches back, arching to grab a fistfull of Yalda’s hair. Yalda gasps at the suddenness, the unexpected shock of pain, as Buck drags him closer still. 

“Do it, please,” Buck nearly begs, his voice rasping with want. 

Looking below their bodies, Yalda can just make out the dark patch, where Buck’s cock has leaked against the sheets.

Oh, oh, and Yalda wishes to be everywhere, to be able to provide all things that Buck could desire in this moment. But he is only one man, and he must decide. 

His own cock is flushed and aching, so hard that when he thinks about it, he’s consumed. He wants to bury himself in Buck, fuck him until Buck’s stoicism breaks. Until he’s so delirious and elevated that Buck lets something slip. Some deep, concealed part of him, that no one else has seen. Something that can be for Yalda alone. So selfish, to even desire such a thing.

“Grab the headboard,” Yalda instructs, taking the oil from off the dresser. He slicks his cock while Buck gets into position, his knuckles turning white and he bears down onto the wooden frame. 

“Like this?” Buck asks.

And yes, like that, his back arched and the soft swell of his ass sticking out, waiting to be taken. His cock curved high towards his stomach. 

“Yeah,” Yalda manages to say in a voice that almost doesn’t sound like his own. 

Yalda kneels behind Buck’s back, wrapping his arm around his waist again, to pull Buck towards him as he guides his cock in, pushing deep into Buck as he yields. Buck’s body stays taut, tense, as Yalda whispers in his ear that it’s alright. Everything is alright, he’s got Buck.

But nothing is alright. The Hunt will take them, or spit them out. But they don’t have to dwell on that right now.

Yalda buries his face at the back of Buck’s neck, breathing in his scent, soaking in this sweet softness of Buck’s skin and hair. He grinds his hips in shallow thrusts, trying to pinpoint the angle that will make Buck cry out. Their hips slap together as Yalda drags their bodies, again and again. Until Buck nearly shouts.

Yalda thrusts in again, this time with a longer stroke. Buck lets go of the headboard with one hand, but Yalda is there to hold him up. Reaching back, Buck grabs at Yalda’s hips, scratching, clawing against him, nails like needles. 

“There, there, there, fuck,” Buck curses, throwing his hips back to meet Yalda’s thrusts. Sweat slicks down Buck’s back, catching in the humid heat between their bodies. 

“You’re so good, Buck,” Yalda nearly sobs. Buck’s body is tight and warm around his cock. Wet with lube and Yalda’s precome. Yalda spreads his fingers wide across Buck’s abdomen, trying to reach down to grab his cock. He wants to consume Buck, block everything else about this miserable existence out. Because in this moment, Yalda can admit what a nightmare the Hunt really is. Even if Buck is the most perfect of dreams while in his arms.

“Fuck, yes,” Buck throws his head back against Yalda’s shoulder, exposing the pale column of his throat. He lets go of Yalda to reach for his own cock, stroking out of rhythm with the crashing of their bodies. 

The headboard slams against the wall as they fuck, and Yalda is almost certain that it will break, as hard and fast as they’ve begun to move. Buck’s steady, shattered curses driving Yalda into a frenzy. Close, so close. 

Buck screams and breaks as he comes. Whimpering through the dizzy high of orgasm. His hole tightens as he empties, nearly driving Yalda to pull out at the sudden rupture of sound and sensation. But Yalda wills himself to slow down, though all he wants is to devastate Buck even further, keep him talking, promising futures he can’t deliver. Because everything ends. Everyone leaves. 

Yalda takes Buck’s hand off the bed frame, lowering him down flat onto his stomach. Though the wet spot can’t be pleasant, Yalda at least hopes his friend is comfortable. Yalda plants his hands on the bed, positioned on either side of Buck’s back. Leaning down, he kisses between Buck’s shoulders, asking for permission, “Inside?”

Buck hums a pleasant, “Mmmhmm,” keeping his body still and pliant. Yalda kisses his skin again, higher this time, against his neck. 

Though he knows Buck is spent, exhausted, Yalda thrusts in shallow and hard, trying to make this quick. He’s so overstimulated already, that it only takes a few rapid drives before he’s coming, spilling into Buck. 

When he pulls out, his head feels clearer, the dread of his existence a little less acute. Buck breathes evenly, chasing sleep they both know won’t come.

“I’m sorry,” Yalda drags his fingers down Buck’s spine, feeling out each bone, so close to the surface of his skin.

Buck turns his head to face Yalda, keeping his cheek against the pillow. His eyes narrow, “For what.”

Yalda shrugs his shoulders, “For being so...rough,” he says.

What he means is, ‘For not wanting you to leave me,’ ‘for wanting to be special,’ ‘for desiring your love.’ He means a great many things, that have very little to do with sex.

Buck frowns, tells Yalda that’s silly. He was good, more than good. 

Now they smell of blood, and sweat, and sex, as they pull back on their clothes. 

After Buck unbars the door, but before he opens the latch, he pulls at Yalda’s shirt collar, guiding their mouths into a simple kiss. 

Yalda almost says it then, but Buck is already through the threshold, his figure a dark silhouette against the pale moon.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://imperfectkreis.tumblr.com)
> 
> Comments and kudos are super appreciated!


End file.
